Mornings in the city could be cruelly abrupt—horns blaring, sunlight cutting through glass, the world insisting that survival meant momentum. But in Min-jun's penthouse, the old world clung to the new, holding its breath.
Amal woke to find Min-jun already at the canvas wall, sleeves rolled up, painting with a focus that bordered on feverish. The previous night's starlight promises clung to her skin, but the lurking sense of unease sharpened as her phone buzzed—a message from Jisoo Han, Min-jun's longtime bandmate and one of the few humans who knew the truth.
*Careful today. Spotted Yoon-suk Park outside the agency, and Viktor Renard just checked in at the Shilla Hotel. Call me. Seriously.*
She moved to the window and looked down, catching a flash of pale hair she recognized from old danger: Viktor—collector, part-time art dealer, and full-time chaos merchant. Her stomach tightened, unease smothering the last traces of sleep.
Min-jun's eyes met hers in the window glass. "They're showing up together," he said quietly. "They never do that unless something's about to start."
Just then, a knock rattled the door. Amal tensed, but Min-jun motioned her to stand aside and went to the intercom.
"Saira Mirza," the speaker crackled. Amal's breath caught. Saira—her med school roommate, all knives and secrets—was supposed to be in Berlin. "Hey, Amal. Can I come up? I brought backup… kind of."
Amal buzzed her in. Seconds later, Saira entered, all confidence and eye-liner, with a tall Indian man in a dark peacoat at her side. "Sorry to crash," she greeted, grinning in a way that said she knew more than she should. "This is Kiran Rao, an old friend with new talents."
Min-jun quickly sized up Kiran—his stance military, eyes observant, hands never empty. "You know who I am," Min-jun said, not as a question.
Kiran nodded, lips barely lifting. "India's got creatures too, Kim. I'm here because two others landed at Incheon last night. Reva Desai and Rowan Sinclair—they're with Viktor, and they're not here for the art fairs."
Amal's heart thudded. Reva had been a mentor when she first started showing her paintings, a woman whose charm could mask daggers. As for Rowan, she remembered him teaching urban sketching—a gentle voice, but eyes that flickered predator-dark in certain lights. "Why now?" Amal whispered, half to herself.
A new voice piped up near the kitchen—Ji-yeon Bae, Min-jun's cousin, all sharp angles and sharper intellect, stepped from the elevator with bags of breakfast. "Because word is out," Ji-yeon said, setting down pastries, "that a human finally remembered a vampire, and he didn't kill her for it. Collectors see that as a challenge." She nodded to Min-jun. "And they don't like you making new rules."
Everyone's eyes flicked to the open balcony, where a slim form in a white jacket landed with supernatural grace. It was Hae-jin Song—one of Min-jun's oldest rivals, sometimes friend, sometimes shadow, always unpredictable.
Hae-jin shook out her hair, saluted with mock solemnity, and grinned at Amal. "I brought a warning. Byung-ho Choi is working with Viktor. They're planning something tonight—at your gallery show."
Ten people—each with their own brand of love, suspicion, or menace—now filled the morning light:
- Min-jun Kim, painting, always watching for threats both ancient and modern
- Amal Rahman, at the window, caught between hope and a gathering storm
- Jisoo Han, texting frantically, the human who'd bleed for Min-jun
- Yoon-suk Park, hunter in shadows, shuffling pawns nearby
- Viktor Renard, chaos, art and hunger coiled in a predator's grin
- Saira Mirza, clever and fierce, ready for trouble, ready to save Amal
- Kiran Rao, the watchman with secrets of his own
- Reva Desai, seduction and shadow both
- Rowan Sinclair, teacher, now threat, sketchbook always in hand
- Ji-yeon Bae, whose intellect made her both shield and sword
Tension crackled in the air like unpainted lightning. They watched each other, sizing up old betrayals and new alliances. Then, the doorbell chimed: a delivery—inside, a single white lily and a blood-splattered invitation:
*Tonight. The exhibit. Bring your muse or lose her forever.*
Unexpectedly, Saira laughed, the sound slicing through gloom. "This is one hell of a reunion, Amal. We survive tonight, there'll be stories worth painting. Or maybe just singing about, if Min-jun's feeling brave."
Amal's hands shook as she tucked herself beside Min-jun. "Can we trust them? Any of them?"
He squeezed her hand, eyes scanning the room. "They're here for themselves first, us second. But for now? We have to risk it. If everyone's watching, everyone's capable of betrayal—or heroism."
As the ten plotted—arguments flaring, jokes breaking the tension, old rivalries flaring as Ji-yeon accused Hae-jin of cheating at poker—the room, for one fragile hour, became their sanctuary. Amal found herself grinning at Saira's sarcasm and watching Min-jun flash that lopsided, rare smile as he cut through the chaos to pour her a second cup of coffee, hands lingering at her shoulder.
For once, their love was just a part of a bigger, messier whole—a symphony of old faces, sharp edges, and the distinct sense that every adorable, suspicious, or thrilling moment today was only a prelude to the danger and devotion waiting for them tonight.